


gold, when you see me (hi, if you need me)

by bucketofrice



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M, Some angst, a retrospective, it has a happy ending i promise, this was cathartic to write so i hope it's a lil cathartic to read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 13:24:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: There’s a wedding dress she sees in a magazine when she’s twelve.A story in ten parts.





	gold, when you see me (hi, if you need me)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! There's a lot going on and I'm not going to get into it, except to say I'm so incredibly proud of these two and all the love they share, in whatever form it takes. They inspire me every day, and they deserve the world.
> 
> This was a bit cathartic to write, and I hope there's a tiny bit of that to reading it too.
> 
> Many thanks to [falsettodrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop/pseuds/falsettodrop) for the encouragement.
> 
> Title: "Like Gold" by Vance Joy.

**_i._ **

There’s a wedding dress she sees in a magazine when she’s twelve. It’s long and flowing and white, as wedding dresses tend to be. It has a deep v, exposing the model’s sternum, gathered straps and a sash. Tessa cuts it out with shaking fingers and tucks it into the journal she writes in nightly, diligent as ever. 

When she goes to sleep that night, she dreams of an older version of herself, wearing that dress. She’s walking down the aisle, her eyes are watery and alight with so much joy. Her groom is handsome; tall with dark brown hair, but his features are hazy.

**_ii._ **

When she’s fifteen, the journal stays in her room in London, because it seems silly to take one part of her life with her into the next. She carefully stows it in a box in the back of her closest, but not without taking out the magazine clipping hidden within it. She files it in the binder full of important documents that her mother told her she would need: vaccination records, emergency contacts, transcripts—and that one dress. When she sees Scott the next morning, to make the drive down to the States, they share a look as they get in his mother’s car. It’s them against the universe. _Together._

On her first night in Canton, her imaginary groom gets eyebrows. Freakishly expressive ones.

**_iii._ **

Tessa is nineteen and her world just broke into pieces. She’s sitting in her childhood bedroom, legs elevated, icepacks on her shins. Everything hurts, from her calves to her heart. Her mother brought her the old memory box the day before, and she couldn’t bring herself to open it. Now, she lifts the lid with shaking fingers and sees her childhood on full display. She opened it to do one thing, and she cannot make herself touch any of the contents besides the journal. She opens it again, slips the picture inside (she hadn’t realized she’d brought it with her till her mother needed documents from her physiotherapist in the States), flips the cover shut and places the notebook back in the box. She closes the lid, screws her eyes shut and forces herself not to cry.

She dreams of her wedding again that night, but the outline of the man at the other end of the aisle is hazier than ever.

**_iv._ **

Twenty years into her life, Tessa feels unstoppable. Screw her shins, screw her calves, screw every rumour that ever happened. She has a gold medal around her neck, her best friend by her side, and they feel like they could conquer the world. Vancouver is a dream, too good to be true, and she blocks out all the pain just to make sure her memories stay as pristine as ever. When they get back to her now-single room at the athlete’s village, Scott takes her into his arms and kisses her. Once. Long and hard and with tongue for good measure. They can’t do this, not now and not yet, but it feels like a promise for the future all the same. 

That night, she falls asleep in his arms (wearing all her clothes, for the record) and she walks down the imaginary aisle again, toward a man with brown eyes that are flecked with hazel.

**_v._ **

Twenty-three is everything she could have ever wanted and none of it at all. Carmen is rough and raw and sexy and seductive and she feels punch-drunk on the power. Scott is here and present in ways he never was before; he draws her in and burns her, and she loves it. Twenty-four passes much the same. They flay each other open in the nights and try to patch each other up during the day, because there’s no one else there to do it for them. It’s only when she feels the leaden weight of silver around her neck that she realizes there’s a deep flaw in her logic, and the thought lodges herself in the back of her throat like bile.

She hasn’t dreamt of her wedding in a long time, but after silver and painful decisions, her walk down the aisle feels like a never-ending marathon. She can’t see the altar at all.

**_vi._ **

If there are two years of her life she could define as a blur, it’d be twenty-five and twenty-six. She says _yes_ so much that the word doesn’t feel real anymore, forgets how to say _no_ , and ends up helping another girl pick out dresses to attend events because she knows her date like the back of her hand. She knows what’ll bring out his eyes and what cut of cloth to use, gives advice on tuxes and pocket squares and drapery with one request—that he never know. She doesn’t want to explore the idea that he would have to think of her in all of this; she wants him happy and focused on the now.

Her imaginary groom is back, but he’s hazy again and she can’t tell if his hair is brown or red. For once, she can’t bring herself to care.

**_vii._ **

Twenty-seven and twenty eight are a dream. Not like twenty was, this is more like lucid dreaming. She’s aware of it all and it’s wonderful and she wants to remember every minute, every second. She wants to be able to play it in her head like a movie, in full technicolour. Sure, there are stumbles, but no falls, because he catches her without fail. Those make it more real though, somehow, make it a little less like floating and ground her to the moment. They’re closer than ever but there’s still a line, because the Olympics top everything and they’re not about to fail.

She still dreams though, at night in addition to the daytime, and the end of the aisle keeps coming closer, the hazel is back and the eyebrows are quirked in that way she loves.

**_viii._ **

Definitions never came easy to her. Not at seven, not at fifteen, surely not at twenty-nine. They are easier for him, because grey was never his colour and he always looked so good in black and white. It shouldn’t surprise her that her lack of definition means more to him than it does to her; she can’t blame him for seeking out what he’s always wanted. And really, wouldn’t it be easier this way, just to have him in the one way, the constant way, and not worry about the rest. It’s safe, and after twenty-one years of taking chances, this one doesn’t quite feel worth it—yet.

Her dreams are still coloured by him though—that walk down the aisle never escapes her—but as much as she tries, she can’t seem to blur him or make him budge.

**_ix._ **

She’s thirty. Three decades of existence, and she can’t quite believe it. She’s home with her mother, cleaning out boxes, freshly worn out from the tour. It was as exhilarating and rewarding and amazing as the first, but just as exhausting. She relishes in the feeling of _home_ , of the comfort of her mother and her childhood bedroom, and the fact that she can finally look back at old memories with a smile. When she opens up her childhood journal for the first time in over a decade, the picture tumbles out. Of course it does. She’d shoved it to the back of her mind for so long, accepted the inevitable, but now, she finds herself running a finger over it. For the first time in far too long, she feels hope of a kind she hadn’t before.

She doesn’t try to make him go away that night when she dreams. She gets closer than she ever has, right to the base of the altar. He’s crying as she approaches—happy tears.

**_x._ **

The third decade of her life does turn out to be the start of a new journey. At thirty, she tells him she’s finally ready for labels. His thirty-two almost doesn’t believe her, but she’s always been good at convincing him of things (Canton, the surgeries, seduction, the comeback, the list goes on) and she figures she’s waited long enough not to rush this. When she asks him if she can be his girlfriend, he lets out that laugh she loves so much and finally pulls her into a searing kiss. For the first time in three decades, he tells her labels don’t matter. Still, she sees the awe in his eyes when she proposes and she’s so happy she could burst.

Her dream never comes back. Instead, she walks down the aisle on a warm day in May, in a gown that’s long and flowing and white. It has a deep v, exposing her sternum, gathered straps and a sash. Her groom is on the other side, all hazel-flecked eyes and expressive eyebrows and that watery smile she loves so much. She reaches the altar, touches his hand and lets out a shaky breath. _It’s real._

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, know I love you all and I'm sending a big virtual hug your way if you need it. xx


End file.
